


Bored to Death and Fading Fast

by TheSunshinydays



Category: Blaseball (Video Game)
Genre: (its jaylen lmao), Gen, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Seattle Garages (Blaseball Team), Swearing, also its mike/derrick if you squint, but i didnt feel it was obvious enough to tag it as a ship, canon-typical incineration references, especially bright zim (pie or die baby!!), no-stars lars and bright zimmerman also make cameos!! love me some terrible pitcher
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-27
Updated: 2021-01-27
Packaged: 2021-03-12 21:01:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29017068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSunshinydays/pseuds/TheSunshinydays
Summary: The Season 2 elections recently concluded, and another preseason means another weeklong Preseason Training Camp.  So here Derrick is in his stew of ennui, with all of the other pitchers in the Evil League and their coaches.  All sixty and change of them are crammed into this tiny, grey, boring conference room with a max capacity of fifty-two, listening to an hour long presentation about the biomechanics of pitching technique, again.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 12





	Bored to Death and Fading Fast

**Author's Note:**

> big thank you to baliset for her fics bc now im emotionally invested in dead garages

More than anything, Derrick Krueger really wants to start repeatedly banging his head on the table in front of him. But that would be disruptive, or something. Instead he magnanimously settles on bouncing his leg and keeping his eight pound bowl of neuron jello upright and unbashed. 

The Season 2 elections recently concluded, and another preseason means another weeklong Preseason Training Camp. So here he is in his stew of ennui, with all of the other pitchers in the Evil League and their coaches. All sixty and change of them are crammed into this tiny, grey, boring conference room with a max capacity of fifty-two, listening to an hour long presentation about the biomechanics of pitching technique, again. 

Derrick sighs to himself as the presenter demonstrates something at the front of the room. The newer players, who have generally elected not to sit in the last row, jot things down in journals or on laptops. He had been eager, even excited for this presentation, too, back before season 2 had started, having walked in on the ash trail of a legend. Wanting to prove himself, maybe. During that first camp he was the one up in the front row taking notes and asking questions, following the guidance of each of the coaches and sports meds in earnest. Fat lot of good that had done him when push came to shove. He’s pretty sure half of the team still hasn't even bothered to learn his name.

He’s sitting in the back, now, paying more attention to the ticking of the five minutes slow clock on the wall than to whatever is being projected on the screen. A few of the other players in the room look as bored out of their skulls as Derrick feels, like No-Stars Lars who has been here since season 1. He’s too busy using all of his infinite, indeterminate arms to fidget with his pen, fold an origami crane, and play minesweeper on his phone under the table to be taking notes. And when the presenter flips to the slide labeled “Pitching Form Phase 2: Stride”, it’s easy to notice that Bright Zim begins staring out the window as he floats lazily in his tank. Derrick doesn’t blame him: it’s not like the information applies to pitchers without legs.

Derrick looks up at the screen for a moment and sees a diagram he copied down last preseason.  _ Did they seriously use the exact same presentation? They really didn’t change anything? _ But answering that question would require paying attention, so he instead lets it remain rhetorical as his gaze shifts to the front row of heads. 

His eyes fall on Mike, with his raised hand and his straight posture and his engaged tone of voice and his answer to whatever question the presenter has asked. Out of the corner of his ear, Derrick hears the phrase “biomechanically efficient rotational motion of the shoulder” and has to stifle a groan. Why is Mike still trying so hard? The other Garages aren’t going to think of him as less of a fuck up anymore than they are going to start thinking of Derrick as more than Jaylen’s mediocre replacement. The band made it crystal clear what they think of Mike when they published that stupid fucking disappointment song, and that won’t change on account of anything less than a blessing. And yeah, Derrick knows Mike helped write the lyrics as a satire of the fans. But Derrick also knows that the frequency with which the song was played by the fans, and the radio station, and Mike’s own fucking teammates was starting to get to the guy. Mike had hoped it would be a fun joke song, not a chart topping Seattle indie rock hit. He used to laugh when he heard it. These days it just makes him look tired.

And yet, he sits at attention and dutifully rattles off information about pitching. It’s not like he needs to work so fucking hard. There are lots of reasons to complain about blaseball, but a lack of job security doesn't number among them. The ILB can’t really afford to get rid of players: the average person doesn't have the ability to run the possible dozens of miles between Yellowstones’ blases or withstand an extended visit to Hellmouth. Even the most normal seeming blaseball players have the ability to survive whatever bizarre shit a game might throw at them. 

_ Except incineration, _ a voice in his head whispers. 

Derrick looks out the window. The sky is bright and cloudless, but the sun is hidden.  _ Probably behind a tree or a building _ . But it still reminds him of his first moments on the field at the Big Garage. It had been a beautiful day out until it suddenly wasn’t, and he was standing on the mound and he could smell a fire somewhere. He had stood waiting for anyone to look at him, but it seemed like they were paying attention to something important. They were all frozen, staring at-- 

Derrick pries his thoughts back to himself. He’s starting to get a headache, he realizes. _Just_ _ dehydration, I haven’t had anything to drink since lunch.  _ He tries not to disrupt the presenter as he gets up and walks quietly out of the room and toward the fountain down the hall. It works: no one so much as turned to look at him as he stood and slipped out the door. He suspects they wouldn’t notice whether he comes back or not, either.   
  


**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! This is my first fic and it was pretty fun to write. Hopefully my essay writing skills transferred well enough that this sounds good, but feel free to leave constructive criticism. If you liked it please also let me know why!! the title is from blink-182's "Bored to Death". This fic is entirely self indulgent but not the way fics are usually self indulgent, i think. i wrote this entirely because i used to be pretty good at a sport, and as much as i LOVE everyone else's fics about the trench or people going on dates or fluff or ansgt, i also wanted some fic about players dealing with the minutiae of the everyday splorts experience. but i realized that those fics are rare because most writers were too busy learning to write to play sports and most athletes were too busy practicing to learn to write. so i did it myself, writing quality be damned. in this case, i wanted someone to be bored out of their fucking mind by the biomechanics presentation theyve seen before. also welcome to my headcanon that before he gets shadowed, mike townsend (is a try hard). i also think derrick is more than a little bitter about the "unremarkable derrick" thing by the start of season three. i may have also accidentally given him adhd but i think thats a fun headcanon so ill allow it. ive rambled on here long enough, thanks again for reading!! hopefully ill see you all in another fic!!


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